Power lines, trees, and the human condition

My lover hates power lines,

the way they barge through his sky,

as if he were the owner.

Still he hates them, distracts him,

his mind spins a bit faster with

the buzz running in the air

like some impatient fly

spinning around the glass waiting

for the picnic to move to the grass,

so he can climb inside.

In the same respect he loves trees,

the way they scent his air,

as if he holds special claim.

Still he loves them, they calm him,

the way they are about lending shade

without a single thought. Not like people,

with their penchant for measuring this and that.

He didn't care for them,

and rightly so when the corner tree

is struck clean through the middle

with power lines, as if man had finally

gotten his fingers in every bowl

only to find once is never enough.